


Tent Mates

by Living_City



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bathing/Washing, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Male Bonding, Massage, Mutual Masturbation, Sharing a Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:33:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24643384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Living_City/pseuds/Living_City
Summary: While sharing a tent in Lothlorien, Aragorn and Boromir work through some of the tension between them. Part plot, part porn, part character study. Canon-compliant(ish).
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Boromir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 89





	Tent Mates

**Author's Note:**

> I've read the books and seen the films multiple times, but I don't absorb or retain logistical details well-- so if you're deep into LOTR lore & trivia, you may notice inconsistencies.

At first, Aragorn had felt reluctant to share a tent alone with Boromir. He’d generally paired up with Legolas when they had bothered to pitch tents, and Boromir with Gimli. Now, several weeks into their stay in Lothlorien, Gimli and Legolas were beginning to overcome their earlier mutual distrust. A territorial dispute with some especially aggressive nesting crows had already forced the company to relocate their camp—and so Legolas had asked if this time he and Gimli might try pairing up, leaving the two men together.

Aragorn had agreed at once. The fellowship had suffered a great blow in Gandalf’s passing, and he was more eager than ever to encourage reconciliation between the remaining members. Even so, he could not help but feel a twinge of apprehension as he carried the tent he and Boromir would now share.

The two Men had never spent so much time alone in close quarters, and Aragorn wondered if the steward’s son would take it as an opportunity to dredge up his anger about Aragorn’s claim to the throne. But he detected no ill-will from Boromir as they set up the tent in the encroaching dusk and arranged their few belongings by lamplight. Boromir even paused in humming a traditional tune to ask, “You must know this song. ‘White Ashes Fall?’”

Aragorn smiled down at the borrowed Elvish cot he was unfolding. “I know it. My mother would sing it when I was young. Only she called it differently. 'Bare is the Willow,’ she called it.”

Boromir nodded and shook out his blanket. “Yes. From the second repeating verse. What does one call it… not the chorus, but the—?”

“Bridge,” Aragorn supplied, surprised and pleased. For Boromir to acknowledge their shared heritage in this easy way, and to solicit his knowledge of trivia, felt like a peacemaking.

“The bridge, yes.” Boromir climbed onto his cot and pillowed his head on his forearms. “Well. Goodnight.”

“Sleep well, Captain,” Aragorn said, and blew out the lamp. To make clear that he returned Boromir’s goodwill, he added, “Dream of happier songs.”

Boromir gave a sound between an affirmation and a dry laugh. “I’ll try,” he murmured in the dark. He dropped off to sleep quickly. Aragorn was left listening to his even breathing, feeling it push and pull the inches of black space that lay between them.

  
  
\- - - - - - - - - - - -

The two Men parted early the next morning, but after the day’s work, it happened that they chose the same time to bathe in the river nearby. Aragorn was just beginning to unlace his boots when Boromir came striding through the trees.

He was flushed and sweaty, fresh from swordsmanship lessons with Merry and Pippin, and went straight to the river to splash his face and dunk his hair. Aragorn had always been aware that Boromir was a handsome man—it was plain to see—but he noticed it especially when Boromir straightened up and threw back his head with a sigh of relief, sending water droplets arcing in the late afternoon sun.

Some men Aragorn had traveled with would assume a strictly-business air whenever they had cause to be unclothed in each other’s presence, barricading themselves against gaze or conversation. He had expected Boromir to adopt such a demeanor— to silently warn that while _Aragorn_ may have spent his days prancing with elves or roaming the wilds with the lawless Dunedain, _he_ had been brought up as a man of Gondor, with a man’s codes of honor, and Aragorn had best respect that. And Aragorn was prepared to do so—to show that he honored Boromir’s right to live by these codes, despite his own indifference to them.

But in fact, Boromir stripped unabashedly, and did not avert his gaze as Aragorn undressed. Aragorn judged this to mean that conversation was permissible.

“How are Merry and Pippin coming along?” he asked.

Boromir chuckled as he waded into the water. “Well enough, I suppose. If I were an enemy of Pippin’s, his air of chaos would alarm me almost much as great skill.”

“It would certainly be difficult to anticipate his next move,” agreed Aragorn.

“Indeed. I have the wounds to prove it,” Boromir said, gesturing to a bloody cut on his upper thigh.

Aragorn raised an eyebrow. “Does that need care?”

“Mm, no,” Boromir dismissed. “The water stretches the blood. Makes it look worse than it is.”

Boromir was soaping himself now. He did not bother turning away, not even as he performed the most intimate tasks. As the group’s leader and the nascent king who threatened Boromir’s position, Aragorn had committed to matching the other man’s displays of trust—but he found that this one tested his resolve, and he felt himself blushing as he went through with it. Even he, with all his years spent in the wild and among elves who had few compunctions about nudity, would have preferred to turn discreetly away for this.

Boromir’s eyes lingered on him throughout—he felt them even as he failed to meet them. He imagined the ridiculous sight he must make, forcing a casual air while he fiddled back the foreskin of his cold-shrunken penis. He began to wonder whether Boromir had caught on that Aragorn felt duty-bound to follow his lead. Perhaps he was mocking Aragorn’s earnestness by goading him into copying embarrassing acts? Or, he could be oblivious to it all— simply having a bath beside a comrade, while Aragorn’s thoughts ran an obstacle course of their own construction.

To top everything off, as Aragorn brusquely scrubbed down the cleft of his arse, he felt his cock make an inexplicable bid to rise and swell. _Probably floundering in sheer confusion_ , he thought, _like a swordsman faced with Pippin_ _in battle._

The need to rinse offered a merciful excuse to duck underwater. Sharp, absolving cold extinguished his cock and flooded his senses. He spent a long moment resting there, opening his eyes to look at the enshrouding green. It was all too soon that the need for air forced him to the surface. He emerged to find Boromir absorbed in scooping handfuls of water over himself, and waded to the bank relieved to have wriggled out from under his eyes.

The reprieve was short. Aragorn was still drying himself with his shirt when Boromir came sloshing out of the water. When Aragorn turned to pick up his clean clothes, he found Boromir watching him with an even, unreadable gaze.

“Is it the custom, among soldiers of Gondor, to stare at your comrades as they bathe?” Aragorn finally asked. He had attempted a tone of neutral amusement, but could hear it tinged with irritation.

The sort of man Aragorn had supposed Boromir to be would have been shamed or enraged by such a question, in which he would have perceived an accusation of sexual interest in other men. Boromir, though, looked profoundly unchastised—he did not even blink. It was becoming clear to Aragorn that he had misjudged Boromir’s relationship to male codes of honor. This realization boosted his respect for Boromir, while also leaving him anxiously off-balance.

After a long moment, Boromir spoke up: “You’re stronger than you look, clothed.”

Aragorn almost laughed. _Is that supposed to be an answer?_ It did not even make sense, coming from someone who, on multiple occasions, had seen him sling an entire dead deer over his shoulders.

“When I first saw you, I thought you skinny,” Boromir added, grinning. It was all so absurd that Aragorn cracked a smile in spite of himself, shaking his head and rolling his eyes.

“It must have been the oversized traveling clothes,” he said, “Better for concealing weapons.”

“Must have been,” Boromir agreed, cheekily grabbing Aragorn’s bicep.

Aragorn whirled out of Boromir’s grip and smacked him, playfully but hard, in the chest. His blow jarred forth a laugh of surprise.

“You look as I expected,” Aragorn said then, looking Boromir up and down as openly as Boromir had done to him. “Like a hulking statue.”

“Aye, that’s me.” Boromir stepped behind him to scoop up a pile of clothes, and Aragorn gasped as a twisted tongue of fabric smacked his bare arse. He grabbed hold before Boromir could retract it. Boromir let go with a laugh, leaving Aragorn holding his clean pair of pants.

“Keep ‘em. I’ll air dry. See you back at the tent, Ranger-King,” he called as he strutted away with the rest of his clothes slung over his shoulder.

Aragorn stared after him. The white of his arse stood out starkly on his otherwise tanned body, highlighting it in a way that, in that moment, felt intentionally, tauntingly lewd. Aragorn found himself irrationally annoyed by the white arse, in particular, and tossed Boromir’s pants on the ground in exasperation.

As he began to dress, he released a long sigh through his teeth.

_You demand much of me, Captain of Gondor._

\- - - - - - - - - - - -

Aragorn took the long way back to camp, hoping to clear his head. The walk did him a great deal of good. Now that it was safely over, the whole scene at the river quickly became amusing to him. He recovered from the disarming feeling of having misjudged Boromir, and was left intrigued by the possibilities this opened up.

When he arrived back at the tent and lifted the flap, he was greeted by the sight of Boromir’s back. The man was still naked.

Aragorn announced his presence by throwing Boromir’s pants at him. “Get decent,” he commanded— a Gondorian idiom.

Boromir turned his head and grinned. “I’ll do my best, once this soaks in. I don’t know what from, but I’m sore as anything.”

Aragorn noted the jar of muscle balm that sat open on the cot. On a whim, he scooped it up and settled behind Boromir. “Shall I?” he asked, prodding Boromir’s back with the jar to illustrate.

“Would you?” Boromir craned his neck around again.

“Of course. Sit.” Aragorn pushed Boromir’s head straight and pressed between his shoulder blades, so that he gave an “ah” and straightened up. When Aragorn began to smooth salve over the firm muscles, Boromir leaned gratefully back into his touch.

He soon had Boromir’s back fully painted, glistening in the dimming evening light that filtered through the tent’s canvas. _Why stop,_ he thought, _just when the man is beginning to relax_? And so, rather than pulling away, he began to massage properly.

It soothed him to settle into an activity so familiar, one at which his healer’s training had left him adept. The warmth of Boromir’s body beneath his palms lulled him into a tranquility he had not felt in months. Boromir, for his part, proved a responsive recipient, groaning in satisfaction and sweet pain.

When Aragorn rose to reach down towards Boromir’s pectoral muscles, he met with a new surprise: Boromir’s cock stood fully erect, bobbing with the movements of the massage. Boromir neither acknowledged it, nor made any effort to conceal it. He simply went on grunting and leaning into Aragorn’s hands.

Aragorn considered this new development. He sensed now that Boromir was among those who could casually blend male bonding with sexual release. Aragorn had not always been game to partake in this— he’d often found it laced with an overbearing bravado in which he had no interest. Boromir’s open, artless arousal, though, was quickly getting him excited. He kneaded Boromir’s chest deeply, deliberately rubbing over the hard nipples.

“ _Ohhh_ , yes,” Boromir groaned. As he leaned back on his elbows, resting his head against Aragorn’s stomach, his erection visibly twitched.

“You feel tension here?” Aragorn asked as he squeezed at Boromir’s pectorals again.

“Yes, ahhh!” Boromir bucked against him, stamping a foot.

“And here?” Aragorn asked, close to Boromir’s ear— and reached down to trace one finger up his swollen penis.

“ _NNgggh_! Here, too,” he gasped.

“Shall I massage this part as well?”

“ _Yes, uhhh._ God, it’s hard.”

“So I see. Come and face me.” Aragorn climbed off Boromir’s cot to sit on his own beside it. Boromir shuffled around, in the awkward waddle of man with a throbbing hard-on, to sit facing Aragorn. He opened his legs and canted his hips forward, offering up his erection.

Aragorn spent a few moments just weighing it in his hands, looking it over. It was large, as befit a man of Boromir’s height and bulk, and its fat bell-end was swollen purple.

Aragorn smiled to himself. “You carry a big sword, Captain of Gondor.”

When Boromir met his eyes with a lopsided grin, Aragorn began to rub. Boromir tipped back his head and moaned through his smile.

Aragorn started off pulling it in slow, firm strokes from base to tip. Next he used his fingertips to rub in tight little motions, inching up the shaft and around the crown, smearing tight circles around the slit. This was true massage, techniques Elven healers or intimate partners administered to clear stagnant energy and increase blood flow. Not that Boromir needed such a treatment—everything seemed more than well in that department—but Aragorn wanted to play within this scene they’d built together: two warriors sharing a massage.

Boromir watched it all intently, grunting and moaning. “ _Ohhh_ yes. Just like that, _ahh_. Right there. _Ohh, there_!”

When Aragorn began rolling his testicles in his palm, Boromir drew his feet up to rest near his buttocks. With his knees up like this, Aragorn could see his anus.

“Shall I massage here?” he asked, watching carefully for Boromir’s reaction as he brushed Boromir’s arse-cheeks and traced a feather-light finger into the cleft.

Boromir grinned with a cocky gleam in his eyes and turned onto his hands and knees. _Your surprises,_ Aragorn thought, _are endless_. He shuffled over to kneel behind Boromir and clapped his hands onto his buttocks with a smack. Boromir’s huff of laughter trailed into a moan as Aragorn began to knead. As he went on, he spread Boromir’s cheeks more and more, until he was blatantly exposing his hole.

“ _Ohhhhh,_ yes. Rub my cock, rub my cock,” Boromir begged then. He was rocking his hips, and his erection swung obscenely.

Aragorn caught it on the backswing and gave it just one squeeze, murmuring, “Patience, Captain.” He dipped into the open balm, greasing up, and embarked to massage Boromir’s anus with the pads of his thumbs.

Boromir had no qualms about showing his pleasure in this touch. He played with himself while Aragorn rubbed his hole, and when Aragorn murmured, “I feel tension inside you. We can’t have that,” he pushed back onto the greased finger with which Aragorn probed him.

Thus far, Aragorn had been too fascinated with Boromir’s reactions to pay his own erection much mind. When Boromir began to thrust back on his fingers, though— when he ordered him to, “ _hit it_ , Ranger, hit my fucking spot!” –- Aragorn had to squeeze himself to keep from squirting in his clean pants. He was quickly forced to let go again as Boromir reached blindly behind himself to snatch up Aragorn’s hand and shove it onto his own fat cock. Aragorn relented, and began to jerk and finger-fuck him in earnest.

Boromir’s grunts began mounting, sharp and close, muffled hastily as he dropped his mouth against his forearm. Then he stiffened, head jerking up, knees spreading even farther, fingers dug claw-like into the blanket. He froze there for a long moment, trembling, chanting “Oh god, here it comes, here it comes”– (Aragorn could only pump him desperately, drinking it all in with eyes wide as moons)— before beginning to kick his feet like a drowning man treading water. He plunged his face back down into the blankets just in time to muffle his _shouts_ , truly shouts, as his orgasm hit him.

“Oh, _fuck,_ ” he cried— “Here it is, oh _FUCK, I’m coming, I’m, FUCK! AHhh, f—_ unh— _uuuuunnghh!”_

Aragorn had to squash his own cock painfully between his thighs to keep from finishing as Boromir’s emptied into the waiting cup of his hand. He knew there was little chance that Boromir’s pleasure had gone entirely unheard outside the tent, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Boromir went limp as he came down, pulling abruptly off of Aragorn’s penetrating finger and pinning his other hand to the cot. This jerked Aragorn downward, so that he fell onto Boromir’s back with a laugh of surprise. They spent a minute just resting there, Boromir’s penis gradually softening in Aragorn’s cum-filled palm while his own cock throbbed insistently.

Boromir broke the silence with a deep inhale and an “mmm,” shifting and stretching. He chuckled when Aragorn showed him the handful of ejaculate.

“I tell you, it’s been awhile,” he said, “Here.” He grabbed a cloth and wiped Aragorn’s hand and his own privates. “Now let me take care of this.” He felt for Aragorn’s clothed cock, making Aragorn gasp.

Boromir got to work straight away, yanking down Aragorn’s pants and clambering over to sit right behind him. It felt surprisingly natural to be seated between Boromir’s thighs, supported by his bare body.

“You’ve got a nice cock, Ranger,” Boromir said roughly. He ran his palm over it, pressing it up against Aragorn’s belly.

“I’m glad you—ahh!—approve,” Aragorn bit out. His wasn’t as large as Boromir’s—it would look almost absurd if it were, given their overall size difference—but he’d never had any complaints with it.

Boromir, clearly sensing his impatience, began to stroke. Aragorn was not in the habit of making much noise while pleasuring himself, or getting off with a companion, for that matter. Now, though, he found he had to continually remind himself to keep it down. It was partly that Boromir kept _talking_ : “That’s it…. _There_ you go, _fuck_ yes……. that feel good? You like that, Ranger?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Aragorn moaned, “ _Yes, oh, yes_.” When he felt it building, he gasped out, “I’m, _ohh_ , I’m—!”

“Ahhh _fuck_ , yes, let it go,” Boromir urged, stroking hard, “Go on, shoot it. _That’s_ it, let it all out!” Aragorn groaned and shuddered, his cum arcing wildly through the air as his vision went white with pleasure.

When he regained his senses, he found himself slumped back against Boromir, who was wiping them clean. The touch of the cloth on his over-sensitized cock made Aragorn wriggle and gasp. Boromir grunted and slipped a hand between his front and Aragorn’s back, prompting him to sit up. This sent a shiver of nerves through Aragorn-- what if he was seeking this distance out of regret for what they had just shared?

As Aragorn rose and bent to retrieve his pants from around his ankles, though, Boromir startled him with a playful smack to his bare arse. He straightened up with a yelp, yanking his pants over his hips, and whirled around. Boromir’s easy grin flooded him with such relief that he could only shake his head and smile.

Boromir’s clean clothes lay strewn across his cot. He rose and collected them, only to set the pile on his pack and crawl into bed still nude.

Aragorn laughed as he climbed between his own blankets. “Will I have to explain to the Elves that you’ve sworn off clothes?”

“It’s more comfortable for sleeping,” Boromir explained, “Don’t you think? Or do you _always_ sleep buttoned up to the neck?”

“Well, what if one must rise suddenly in the night?”

“If orcs invade Lothlorien, I’ll fight them naked,” Boromir said placidly, gazing up at the ceiling with his arms folded beneath his head. “Are you going to sleep? You can light a lamp if you like. I’ll be out in a minute regardless.”

Dusk was rapidly fading to dark, painting Boromir’s face in shadow. “No, that’s alright,” Aragorn said. “I’ll sleep as well.”

“Mmm. Pleasant dreams, then." Boromir's voice was already softening with sleep.

True to his word, Boromir dozed off almost immediately. Aragorn was again left listening to the rhythm of his steady breathing. Tonight, though, after all they’d shared, the sound felt companionable. Within minutes it had lulled Aragorn to sleep himself. His dreams were full of warrior’s embraces— warm skin against skin.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fan fiction I've ever shared..... maybe the first non-comedic fiction of any kind? In school I flat-out refused to do serious fiction assignments because I found it too vulnerable.


End file.
